


Cheating

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 17:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11628435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: Yeah, there's a misunderstanding.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

I trust Kurt.

I am not the type of boyfriend to go snooping through his phone or drawers looking for something unexpected. Kurt tends to surprise me no matter what he does; looking for anything extra is unnecessary. Not to mention a breach of the trust that he already gives me.

But he's been gone for seven minutes. His phone has buzzed sixteen times.

My fingers twitch with the compulsion to answer it on the tenth vibration, if only to tell the person on the other end that no, Kurt's house is not on fire and he's not in any danger. The urgency, the frequency of the texts is astounding. Even Rachel doesn't send this many unless she's just found out a new role that she can try out for which doesn't involve Mr. Schue's tutelage.

As text number twelve lights up Kurt's iPhone, the itch becomes unbearable. Maybe it is Rachel, maybe it's someone else. Either way, the fact that whoever it is is texting this much is wrong. Clearly worried about Kurt, or in danger themselves, and simply needing someone to respond. I hesitate with my finger over the keypad, the word traitor chasing itself through my thoughts before I slide my thumb smoothly across the unlock button.

With one breathless pause in between, my fingers slip and another text lights up the screen. Chandler. :)

I swallow because I don't know any Chandlers. Kurt has never mentioned any Chandlers, and I'm positive that if he was famous Kurt would at least have thrown him out in an ecstatic rant about how he's somehow on first-name basis with a celebrity.

No, I don't know any Chandlers, but Kurt does.

My fingers skid across the screen as I try and open the text message discretely. I don't want to invade anyone's privacy. If it's personal -- maybe a distant relative or something -- I don't want to intrude on that. If it's an emergency, I don't want to see the full-blown hysteria: I just want the details needed to make a phone call to nine-one-one without being called insane afterward.

I open the texts and my stomach drops.

It's nothing -- raunchy, thank God. I'm not sure if I could sit here and pretend I'm not skimming through Kurt's phone calmly if they were. But they're -- oddly complimentary. (Kurt, your smile outshines the sun; minimal stage lighting will get you far. Your pitch is perfect -- I feel in the presence of a masterpiece in the making. We should practice together some time -- I could get you some exposure to other New York college talent-searchers.)

I don't even notice how engrossed in them I am until Kurt opens the door, his cheerful proclamation about his prized cheese tray and our movie night falling on deaf ears. It seems unreal, reading the texts and knowing that Kurt's been responding to them: using smileys generously, even flirtatiously alongside his usual witty dialogue. I know without looking how many texts Kurt has sent me over the same period of time.

From the past three days, there are exactly fourteen words logged on my phone that belong to Kurt Hummel.

I swallow hard. It doesn't feel right, like someone's choking me or about to choke me. Kurt has paused at the foot of the bed and words spring to my lips before I can stop them.

"Who's Chandler?"

And it crumples. Kurt's expression loses the bright edge of almost forced cheerfulness that it had acquired since my arrival -- and God, it hurts to see how artificial it was, how easily it folds into a more neutral, more distressed one now -- as he steps back, bracing himself.

I know, even before he starts speaking, that I will lose the argument. Hurting Kurt is like ripping a part of my soul into pieces: it's not enough to cripple me but it's more than enough to keep me from ever, ever doing it consciously.

"Why are you going through my phone?"

I'm not sure if it's more upsetting to hear the eerily calm note in his voice or the rising alarm underneath it. Part of me wants to believe that he is calm, that it is all a misunderstanding and he's not concerned that I've stumbled upon them. That he's unconcerned that I've found the texts stored lovingly for hours after they've been sent, responded to meticulously in my absence.

"I'm not going through your phone," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of when Kurt's here, looking at me like I've somehow stumbled upon his darkest secret. "It's just that it--" I stamp down the sudden urge to drop the phone, turn to Kurt, and beg him to tell me why he hasn't told me about this, any of it. I don't understand, am speechless and helpless to confront him like this, but manage to force out the next words carefully. ". . . keeps buzzing, because Chandler won't stop texting you."

I let the emphasis lie on the word, half-daring him to pick up the bait, to admit to this â€“ this before I have to force it out of him.

Because there's no way around this. Even as I speak, the phone silenced by my fingers, it lights up again.

No friend texts this much. Let alone one that I've never even heard of that Kurt clearly responds to.

Anger rises to mingle with frustration; I rise slowly off the bed, the words already springing to my lips as I scroll systematically through the list.

"When we go to New York, let's go to the front of the Plaza and re-enact the end of The Way We Were."

"Give me that." The plaintive, almost annoyed tone in Kurt's voice doesn't faze me. Nothing could at this point.

The lump in my throat increases as Kurt reaches for his phone, the gesture enough to tell me that he's afraid. Suddenly, I'm terrified because if there was nothing wrong, why would Kurt be so desperate to hide it?

"Can you sing into my voice mail, I want to make your voice my ring tone?" My own voice rises with disbelief, but Kurt doesn't snap, doesn't say anything to counteract it.

Everyone thinks that Kurt is this vocal, expressive person, and he is, but sometimes the most distressing thing about him is the way he gets when he's genuinely upset. He closes down and closes off, trying to cover up the evidence of his hurt before it can alert anyone else.

"Give me my phone."

Only this time it isn't hurt. This time it's shame, disbelief, and suddenly I'm backing away and clutching the phone, because the only leverage I have with him -- the only thing I have left with him, it seems -- is this one connection. As soon as he gets it away, he won't speak to me.

As soon as he gets it away, we're done.

I don't know what I'm doing -- I'm convinced my mind has temporarily locked the portion devoted to sanity away to spare it from this impossibility -- but words tumble over each other even as I stare at Kurt, imploring him to stop me.

Never before have I wanted him to say it's not right.

Please, contradict me. Please, tell me I'm wrong. Please, say it's a lie.

Kurt doesn't say anything. He stares at me with the sort of exasperated impatience characterized by someone who sees nothing wrong in a situation.

The absolute disconnect he has from my uncertainty -- from my upset, if I'm being honest -- hurts more than anything he could have screamed or thrown at me.

"Why are you getting so upset?"

The words are stuttered, but the breach in calm doesn't reassure me. If anything, it terrifies me more. Kurt's never discomposed like this, not when he knows he's on sure footing. Even when he's exhausted and upset and emotionally drained, he's not this discomposed, this detached.

It hurts to watch him lift his hands, making placating gestures. It's almost sickeningly alike the time when he had been trying to express himself in front of the Warblers, to sing his heart out for his solo audition and use his entire soul to show that, and I gave him a hands-down gesture.

Every part of me wants to grab those hands and hold them. Anything to stop the look of vague bewilderment on his face, as though a trusted friend has suddenly turned feral.

And I can't help it. I can't stop it; the inexplicable rise of emotions breaks over me, every dull, emotionless hour spent waiting for Kurt to text, to ask why I haven't been calling and texting him all the time like I used to, crashes over me. Every minute spent staring at my quiet phone hoping that it will light up, only to be bitterly disappointed when I realize that it's not Kurt.

All of it comes together -- the hurt, the pain, the frustration -- and I can't stop my next words.

"This," I say, and my strength is gone, the tears almost choking me as I finish, "is cheating, Kurt."

"This is texting," he snaps, but without the same heat that he uses in the presence of others. It's cold, icy without the sharp edges. My throat tightens and my vision blurs as the screen lights up again even as Kurt stares at me, edging closer. "Look, he is just a guy that I met at the music store. Nothing happened. You used to text Sebastian all the time--"

I want to be angry. In some rational corner of my mind, I am, because what Sebastian and I did was never voluntary. He texted me and I responded. Not willingly, at first, but slowly when the texts became more incessant. Answering one here and there to make him stop. Letting him know something to get him to back off, only to find out that it was useless in the end.

He still tried to hurt Kurt. And he got the Warblers to help him.

Kurt knows it's a low blow -- and for one fleeting moment I see the recognition in his eyes -- before they harden and the moment is gone.

I can't stand still as the accusation rolls off his tongue -- "You would call him" -- and my own hands are rising, desperate to push this all down, to stop this from actually happening.

"But I didn't like him," I say. Kurt's face loses its sympathetic edge, hardening even further even as I watch. "Those texts were . . . family-friendly." It's not entirely a lie. Those that I responded to were; the rest I deleted before I could finish reading.

Kurt gives this sigh and I know that he's not hearing me. It's like we stand on opposite sides of an ocean: there he is, signaling some cryptic message at me, trying to justify himself, while I stand on the opposite end of the world trying not to drown.

The tears come hot and unabated but I resist, pushing them back even as my voice turns watery with regret.

"You like this guy."

Kurt looks away. He looks away, breathes in, and sits on the edge of the bed.

It's all I need. I close my own eyes -- briefly; I don't even think he notices -- before staring at him in disbelief.

You didn't deny it.

The platitudes that he offers are even worse. I try not to listen as he says that the way Chandler makes him feel is better than the way I do is. That some stranger has managed to make him feel more loved and appreciated and respected and cherished than I have, just through these repetitive messages.

That my validation has not been enough -- never enough, his expression screams -- to satisfy him. That he needs more than just me to be happy, because I don't give enough.

The anger comes even as the tears force their way to the edge, ready to break over.

"I transferred schools to be with you." The burn worsens as I remember Kurt's ecstasy when he first realized what had happened, the momentary panic attack that ensued before instant, beautiful relief.

Wait, you didn't do this for me, did you? a younger, brighter Kurt asked, his expression warring between worry and euphoria. Because if you did this for me, it would be very romantic, but it could lead to resentment which could lead to horrible, horrible, nasty break-up. . . .

This is the break-up, I think, something cold, heavy, and sharp settling in my chest as the realization sinks in.

"I changed my whole life. That doesn't make you feel loved?"

My voice breaks, but I don't care. I don't care because Kurt's face, Kurt's face reads the same level of disbelief and unconcern that I dreaded from the start of this conversation.

If he spoke it, the words could not be clearer.

So what?

Something twists inside me and for a moment I'm afraid that I'm going to be sick on his carpet. My hand still has its grip on his phone but it's lax now; it would be easy for him to stand up and take it. I don't even know if I could defend it if I wanted to at this point. The numbness feels all powerful, consuming, and I can't breathe, I can't speak as he does.

"You don't know what it's like being your boyfriend."

As though it's a punishment to be with me. As though it's torment for him to be seen with me, to be paired with me, to be around me.

"You are the alpha gay. Even Rachel wanted to make out with you."

The sheer resentment in his voice makes my chest tighten, my jaw run slack as I desperately fight the breakdown that I know is coming.

This is what he thinks of me. When there isn't the same pressure of politeness to persuade him to speak otherwise, this is what he feels. About me. About himself.

About us.

"I used to get solos every week. And do you know how many times I've-I've had to sit on a stool and-and watch you perform?"

Your solos are amazing, Blaine.

But they're also numerous.

It hurt when he told me back then.

Now the pain is unfathomable. Even my mind seems to go numb, but my face crumples as I smother the other emotions clamoring to be set free.

"Then talk to me," I beg. "Tell me that you're unhappy, but don't cheat on me."

The transformation from calm and resentful to almost hysterical with outrage is almost stunning to behold.

"I feel like I have taken crazy pills," Kurt raves, closing in and snatching the phone away. "I didn't cheat on you. I'm-I'm really sorry if-if this made you upset."

Of course it made me upset, Kurt, why can't you see that?

"But uh, it's -- it's okay."

And that's when I know.

You don't get it at all, do you, Kurt?

You really don't understand what's happening?

I'm losing you, Kurt.

You're running away already.

I'm not even aware of saying anything else, just making some excuse to leave and hurrying out the door without bothering to grab my jacket. It's freezing outside but the frigid air feels good. It makes my skin tingle and my hands ache by the time I fumble my keys into the car ignition and manage to pull out of the driveway. I'm barely aware of the drive home, my ears ringing as I try to imagine what tomorrow will be like, what the day after that will be like, what the rest of my life will be like without Kurt in it.

Somehow, I don't crash into a tree or go off-road and kill myself. It's a near feat as I yank the car into park in the driveway to my own home, grateful that my parents are out of town. Cooper looks up as I open the door, a "Hey, Blaine," already on his lips before I storm past him.

I don't cross stairs or open a door or collapse on my bed, face buried in a pillow. I don't hear the sound of Cooper knocking tentatively on the door before coming in, sitting on the edge of my bed and hauling me into a semblance of a hug. I don't know when it becomes dark and we doze off, or how my phone comes to rest beside me when I finally regain control.

One word flashes back at me as I reach for the phone carefully, my fingers shaking slightly.

I wordlessly delete the text without opening it, the little Kurt disappearing from the screen.

Twenty minutes later, another one. Twenty-two seconds after that, it's gone, unread.

I turn off my phone, toss it under my pillow, and desperately try to remember what it's like to move on after you've had a piece of your heart broken.


	2. Chapter 2

Maybe talking is not the answer. Maybe you need to show him how you really feel in the best, most honest way you know how.

I've lived with Blaine long enough to know that singing is his passion, his outlet.

Whereas he fumbles with words during other situations, he's smooth and clear on any sort of platform, always composed on a stage. Even the emotions he lets loose during his songs are contained, controlled to a hint but not an onslaught of tears. I wonder how he's able to infuse so much of himself into the words and still retain that odd detachment, as though there are two Blaine Andersons and only one knows how to sing.

Shaking the thought from my mind -- now is not the time to be thinking about whether or not my boyfriend has multiple personalities -- I approach my locker cautiously. It's been three days since we've actively spoken to each other (if the two lines quipped at each other before Blaine sang It's Not Right But It's Okay even counted) and I'm not sure if I'm ready to confront him yet. Fortunately, he isn't around, his locker deserted and cold-looking next to mine. Even though my uncertainty lingers, I still want to sigh with frustration and wait until he appears so I can actually talk to him.

Judging his receptiveness to my texts (or rather complete lack thereof), I know it wouldn't be a pleasant conversation.

"So, you and the beau still aren't talking?" Mercedes asks, coming up on my left side. I shrug and open my locker, careful not to disturb the Whitney Houston shrine Rachel and I meticulously constructed earlier.

A brief pang of discontent rises in me as I recall the way that Blaine had looked the first time I showed him my newly-fashioned locker. I didn't expect him to lavish it with praise, but he had always been complimentary before, insisting on throwing in a positive remark on just about anything I did or deemed worthy to show him. The momentary silence followed by the tiny frown that appeared on his lips was not the sort of happy response I had been expecting. I'd shown him the various images arranged artfully across the uneven walls in an attempt to elicit some sort of reaction from him. His silence had broken at that and he'd weakly insisted that it looked great.

I didn't know why he was so upset until I caught a glimpse of the ridiculous unicorn presidential campaign picture still hung up in his locker. It took me the better part of three hours to find the old picture of him that I'd had up in my locker, placed lovingly in a box in my room with a pink sticky-note on its flap.

It's still sitting there, untouched but not taken away.

I don't know what to do with at least half of my stuff now that Blaine and I aren't talking.

"Kurt," Mercedes says, nudging my side in a way that says she's tried at least three times already to get my attention. "Are you okay? You've been zoning out a lot lately."

"I'm just . . . thinking about NYADA," I say truthfully. Well. Partially truthfully. Some of my thoughts are still consumed with the future right now, but the overwhelming majority won't stop thinking about Blaine. "The audition's next week and I still haven't picked the right song," I add. "I can't mess this up, Mercedes. If I'm not perfect, my chances at NYADA are gone."

It's the truth, and my heart momentarily jolts as I realize just how groundbreaking this audition will be for me. An entire future rests on the judgment of another person, one who could as easily accept as damn me.

"Aren't you worried about Blaine?" The genuine curiosity in her voice startles me. I know that I haven't been very vocal about my concern for our relationship but . . . it hasn't really sunk in yet that I could lose him. It's not fathomable. This is simply a bump in the road, a twist in many pathways which still inevitably lead to a life with him.

Even if he calls you a cheater? And sings about it in front of the entire Glee club?

I want to have a witty retort but I don't, so I settle for, "Maybe," before pulling out a bottle of hairspray to distract my hands. Mercedes surreptitiously moves around so she's standing in front of me, the worry on her face sincere.

"You two don't usually fight like this, boo," she says gently.

"I know." I'm trying not to think too hard about it, actually, because if I do then I'll notice how much harder it's going to be to mend things at this rate. Even the fact that Blaine stormed out after singing his song seems to complicate rather than improve matters. I was half-convinced that I saw his expression crumple when he turned around, but I know better: it's all part of the scene, part of the song with him. He was dry-eyed when I saw him at his locker later, a little flushed but otherwise collected and calm. If he had been genuinely distraught, then there would have been some evidence, some sign of it.

"Maybe you should try talking to him?" Mercedes' voice is delicate but pointed and I sigh in genuine exasperation as I cap the aerosol can.

"Mercedes, he's the one that refuses to talk to me. I've tried calling and texting him, but he practically runs away every time I see him in public."

"Then -- maybe you should sing about it?" Mercedes suggests. I frown, pursing my lips and reaching into my locker to drag out my satchel and books as she continues. "Look, if you really aren't interested in him anymore, then by all means, break up with him." I flinch slightly at the words, at the bluntness with which they are spoken, and her voice softens a little as if in response. "If you do still care about him, then you are going to have to work at it to get him to talk to you. And maybe just opening up to him about how you feel could help."

"Why aren't you giving him this speech?" I ask, partially out of spite and partially out of curiosity. In all honesty, I can't say that I've fully forgiven Blaine's behavior. Lashing out immediately because he saw a few innocent texts -- all right, a lot of questionably innocent texts -- was clearly a sign that he didn't understand the difference between making new friends and cheating.

Yes, Chandler and I are borderline flirtatious, but I have no intention of dating him whatsoever. I've seen Blaine flirt with other people on a semi-regular basis and I know that before I started dating him that he was that guy. The one that could take anyone to a dance or get girls' phone numbers without trying or make friends with a single winning smile. He was popular at Dalton and given privileges that most upperclassmen didn't have. The idea that my friendly flirting with Chandler is somehow a heinous offense against him seems almost unreal.

The longer I let it sink in, the more dubious it seems, but I'm reluctant to concede the point all in one go. It started small -- okay, maybe that text could be misconstrued as cheating if I was actually interested in him -- and soon grew to encompass almost every text that Chandler has sent me over the past few days. I felt sick to my stomach until I reminded myself that I had not intentionally done any of it, that it was all purely platonic, but the horrified, devastated expression on Blaine's face when I told him that it wasn't cheating is still branded onto the backs of my eyelids.

"I'm not giving him this speech because Santana's already taking care of it," Mercedes dismisses.

"Santana?" I repeat incredulously.

Mercedes shrugs, looking unperturbed. "I know you're a good guy, Kurt. I know you would never do something like this on purpose. But from what Rachel's told me--"

"From what Rachel's told you," I echo, the sarcasm almost biting as I lay heavy emphasis on the word.

Mercedes rolls her eyes and pinches my upper arm. I scowl and rub at the spot indignantly, turning away from her to sort through my locker.

"Look, Kurt. I get that you're upset. I get that Blaine singing that song the other day probably didn't endear him to you." Endear him to me? I think, resisting the urge to laugh hysterically at the thought that a song about our apparent end would possibly endear him to me. "But if you want to make this work again, you're going to have to put in some leg-work. Maybe you can't talk to him, but . . . there are other ways of telling a person how you feel."

She trails off meaningfully and, seeing that I have no intention of moving away from my locker or looking at her, gives my upper arm another, gentler squeeze. "Blaine's a good guy, too, Kurt. He's not worth losing over something like this." She turns and walks away before I can respond.

I close my eyes and let the pseudo-silence around me comfort me for a moment before opening them again. I don't know what Santana is saying to Blaine -- or even why she's agreed to talk to him or what role she feels she has in our own personal dilemma -- but I do know that Mercedes is right.

I can't talk to him, but there are other ways of telling him how I feel.

It takes two days for me to muster up the courage to do it. Which means that it's been exactly one week since Blaine found the texts that Chandler and I were exchanging.

In some ways, it seems fitting that as I step into the choir room I'm standing in the same place that he was shortly after our fight. I can almost feel the tension radiating off him. The way his entire posture stiffens, his shoulders tensing as though he's bracing himself for an attack makes my heart sink. I want to tell him that he doesn't need to fear me, but somehow the words don't come. I can tell from the way Santana's eying him that she had at least some influence on his decision to even show up today. The silence that has been growing between us has reached an almost unbearable pitch, a constant twinge that makes our war of attrition even less bearable.

Rather than retreating to a seat on the opposite side of the room, I stand firmly in place. I've already spent hours practicing this with the small ensemble by the piano, perfecting the notes and willing the message to shine through. Blaine's entire visage is exhausted, worn, and I'm worried that he might not pay any attention to the words, might simply listen to the noise and then turn aside from it once I'm done.

I draw in a slow, steadying breath, catching Mr. Schue's gaze briefly to confirm my intentions. He nods and, without a word, soft notes begin to rise from the piano in the corner. Instinctively, I relax, closing my eyes and letting the world around me diminish. It's not important. The only thing that matters is Blaine, making him see and understand, even if we can't say it aloud to each other anymore.

"Share my life, take me for what I am."

My voice is soft and clear and I can almost hear the way Blaine's breath hitches slightly as he listens. Instinctively, I look up, my eyes sliding open to look at him. I need to see him. I need to know that he's there even more than I need to know that he's listening.

He is. His eyes are slightly glassy and I can't help but smile, even as my voice rises seamlessly to sing the next line. I can tell by his posture that he still hasn't forgiven me and, if I were to stop singing at this very moment, would doubtless continue to not speak to me. Instead of feeling resentment or anger, I feel calm, relaxed; he's here, and he's at least hearing me, even if he isn't prepared to hear me out.

It's more than he's given me for the past seven days.

And, after my behavior that first night, it's probably a little more than I deserve.

"Take my love," I plead softly, my hands rising to cradle the microphone stand. I need something, some solidarity to ground me, even if it's just the tips of my fingers that graze the pole. If this weren't a final, desperate bid to speak to him, I would be holding his hands now, lightly, giving them the faintest squeeze to solidify our promise. "I'll never ask for too much."

The way his face shifts, from purposefully detached to almost desperately hopeful, makes my heart ache. He buries the emotion quickly, shuttering them behind a loosely disinterested demeanor. Despite his apparent unconcern, I'm not dissuaded, singing right to him even when he tries to look everywhere but back at me. Mike provides a brief distraction -- I can see his curious look from the corner of my eye -- but all my attention is focused on Blaine, the weak, halfhearted glare that he gives Mike unconvincing at best and heartbreaking at worst.

Oh, Blaine.

"Just all that you are . . . and everything you do. . . ."

I can see the disbelief in his gaze -- a dozen emotions warring for dominance, sadness most prominent among them -- even as I keep singing, my voice beginning to gain momentum as the music begins to crest upward.

"I don't really need to look very much further," I sing, intentionally meeting his gaze. He shifts, his arms folded across his chest, his expression softening with each word. Without anger to hold him up, he looks small and almost painfully distraught, lost. "I don't really want to go where you don't follow."

And yes, now the glimmer of tears is unmistakable. It amazes me that Blaine is able to keep his expression as neutral as he does, even if sadness and longing are bleeding through his façade. Part of me wants to stop and hug him until everything is okay again, kiss him until he's convinced that I mean it, that I'm not going to leave him behind, that this thing with Chandler isn't my attempt at leaving him. Another part of me is soaring with the music, caught in its flow and reaching upwards to meet it.

"I won't hold it back again, this passion inside. I can't run from myself, there's no where to hide."

I'm looking right at him, willing to see, unable to help lifting my hands, relishing the feeling of power and security that I feel here, now. This is what I mean, Blaine. Not anything about Chandler. Not anything about NYADA. Just . . . us.

You.

"Don't make me close one more door," I sing, watching his gaze shift aside. To anyone else, it would look vaguely disinterested; I can see how hard he's fighting not to openly break down. I can't help the amount of fervency that I put into my voice, willing it to work. After days of silence, this has to work. It has to, because I don't know how much longer either Blaine or I can survive like this.

"I don't want to hurt anymore," I croon, shaking my head and watching the way his expression softens because he wants it. One thing that Blaine has never -- and I hope, will never -- be able to do is hide his emotions. From other people, perhaps, but never from me. And the way he wants it, aches for it, gives me more hope than any other conciliatory words could.

"Stay in my arms if you dare -- or must I imagine you there?"

The way he frowns slightly, like he's trying to picture what it would be like never being able to spend the stolen hours with me again, is further assurance that I'm right. And I can't deny that the thought of losing that forever would be unimaginable; never being able to sink into Blaine's arms again or wrap my own around him, tangled together and close enough that our breaths intermingle. It's impossible to picture a reality where that's not possible, and I can see it on Blaine's face that he feels the same.

"Don't walk away from me," I beg. He's looking right at me now, not even attempting to hide the emotions playing across his face. Anguish, frustration, defeat, fear, worry, hope.

Hope that maybe this isn't just a song.

Hope that maybe it can be that way again.

It can, Blaine. This was never supposed to be the end.

"Don't make me cloooose one more door, I don't want to huuurt anymore!" I belt the words out, gripping the microphone tightly, my fingers -- my entire being -- aching for this moment to be real, for these words to be true. Blaine's arms drop to his lap as though he can't even hold them up anymore, as though the sheer effort of resisting the reality I'm trying to show him is too hard.

"Stay in my aaaarms if you dare! Or must I imagine you there?" He looks away, looks anywhere but at me, but I can see it -- I know that he wants it, still, that he's losing the fight against wanting to believe me. Even if he looks less on the verge of tears now than he did before, the way he looks at me -- filled with love, painful, unbroken love -- is somehow even more unbearable.

"Don't walk away from me," I plead. "Don't you dare walk away from me -- no!" And now my own emotions are taking over, tears glazing my eyes even as my arms reach out reflexively to receive him, to hold him, to show how much I want it, need it, want him, need him.

"I have nothing, nothing, nothing . . . if I don't . . . have you."

I close my eyes as the song fades to a close, the applause of the rest of the New Directions insignificant as I open them again and look at Blaine, gauging his reaction. He's more teary-eyed than ever, a few slipping over to spill onto his cheeks as he holds his hands close to his mouth. I can't tell whether he's trying to clap or hold back a sob, either option equally likely.

I open my mouth to say something and he's gone, out the door before I can even think twice about trying to stop him. After a moment, I follow, my pace less urgent but my heart still pounding. I have to -- need to follow through with this.

I find him down the hall, his arms wrapped around himself and his shoulders trembling. He doesn't make a sound and, were it not for the defeated hunch to his back, I could almost convince myself that he's angry, upset that I've forced this upon him rather than overwhelmed by it. Cautiously, I step closer, not wanting to break the quiet around us. Distantly I can hear the Glee club resuming its usual activities, Mr. Schue's voice slightly subdued as he speaks.

"Blaine?" I ask, because none of the rest matters if I can't fix this.

He doesn't say anything, flinches slightly before visibly pulling himself back together. "What?" he asks. It's thick but I've never been more grateful to hear his voice; a hairline tremor runs through me, taking away some of the tension that I hadn't even realized has been there.

"I -- I don't want to not talk to you anymore," I say simply. Every instinct urges me to go to him and wrap my arms around him, hold him close until everything is okay again. I don't, instead letting him have his distance, his space. This isn't just about me forgiving him for his reaction, after all; Blaine has to forgive me, too. And that hurts more than the idea that we won't be able to be as we were -- that Blaine will reject my apology, that he won't understand how much I regret that things have come to be like this (have even stopped texting Chandler, haven't seen him since the music store that day).

"I -- Kurt, what do you want me to do?" He turns to face me and his cheeks are dry but flushed, his tears narrowly held at bay. "I've tried -- I just--" He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and, when my face reflexively scrunches because of the amount of hair gel no doubt getting on it, his expression hardens. "Maybe we should just . . . ?"

"Blaine." He doesn't say anything, stares at me with pleading eyes again and resisting the urge to hug him is like a physical ache. "Please. Just . . . give me a chance? We can go to couples' counseling, if that would make it more comfortable for you. But I don't want to lose you. Not like this." My voice is soft, my words earnest as I step a little closer. He shies away and it feels like he's driven a stake between us, drawn an invisible line as he gives a single terse nod.

"Tomorrow?" he pleads.

I sigh, wishing that we didn't have to spend another day like this, wishing that we could be back to the way we were already, but I nod. "Tomorrow," I agree.

And then his arms are around me, a blur of skin and fabric that wraps around me in a warm, protective embrace, squeezing the air of out my lungs. I don't care because I'm holding him back just as tightly. We can't speak and neither of us tries to.

Then he's gone and tomorrow is far, far away again.


	3. Chapter 3

Man up, Blaine.

I look inside Emma Pillsbury's office and stiffen as I notice that Kurt is already seated in front of her desk. He's waving a hand in front of himself in a familiarly casual gesture, a soft, friendly smile on his face as he explains something. Loathe as I am to step inside this little glass world and disrupt their temporary peace, I know that I have no choice. Ms. Pillsbury's gaze flickers briefly to me as Kurt continues speaking and, by some unspoken command, Kurt stops talking. He turns slowly in his seat and I force my shoulders to relax, to feign calm even if I can't be it, as I step into the room and sink into the chair nearest the door. It's the only comfort I have here -- that he's given me the one closest to the door, to the escape should this turn ugly and irreparable.

I hate the feeling of cowardly resignation that arises in me, the belief that we won't be able to mend things and I will be leaving empty-handed and brokenhearted when it's over. It's already been eight days since the fight over Chandler's texts. Logically, I know, it isn't that long. Emotionally, I can't help but think that it's already over, that if things were meant to be resolved we would have talked already.

We've never fought like this before.

And at this rate, we may never fight like this again.

Seeing that neither of them is willing to break the silence -- Ms. Pillsbury has her hands folded and a bright, hopeful expression on her face while Kurt sits mutely beside me, his gaze trained on the floor -- I clear my throat quietly and speak.

"I'm a little confused as to what we're doing here."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Kurt tilt his head slightly in my direction. I don't need to see his face to see the arched eyebrow, the disbelieving, Really, Blaine? Are you that oblivious? expression written plainly on his face. A flare of hot anger emerges briefly from the smoldering despair that seems to have taken permanent residency in my chest over the past few days. It disintegrates as soon as Ms. Pillsbury speaks, her hesitation and cheerful willingness to try almost depressing.

"Well, um, Kurt said that you two might need a little couple's counseling."

A little? I repeat silently, staring at Kurt disbelievingly. I know that I've agreed to this -- that I've essentially locked myself into this by saying that I would be here -- but it's hard to believe how much beating around the bush he's doing.

We don't need couple's counseling. We don't need make-up songs.

I just need you, Kurt.

"Are you qualified for that?" I ask instead, forcing my eyes away from him before the fierceness of his gaze can scald me. I can't tell whether it's anger, frustration, or a bit of both that lights it on fire; I'm not strong enough to ask why.

"Not really, no," Ms. Pillsbury says amiably, "or at all. But Sam and Mercedes came to talk to me and you know I -- I -- I think they found it pretty helpful."

My heart sinks like a stone. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure they broke up," I inform quietly. My stomach writhes at the thought that Kurt and I will leave this room in a similar state; my head hurts with the sheer force of my vehemence for that not to happen.

It's already happened, I snap at the pathetically hopeful side of me that wants to believe that this can still work, that Kurt was the one to initiate it which does mean he wants to talk to me and maybe we can figure it out. Maybe we can talk it over peaceably and find our rhythm and be happy with each other again. Separate ourselves from this mess and . . . move on. Move forward.

I want it so badly that it aches, my arms tightening infinitesimally around my stomach. It's not the same pleasurable ache that builds whenever Kurt and I are . . . intimate together. It's terrifying, a knot of muscles that refuses to loosen despite the hope fluttering feebly in my chest. I want to run, to hide, but I can't make my legs move; however illogical it seems, they're glued to the chair, locked into this conversation from the moment I entered the room.

"Gosh, they seemed like such a good fit, too, right?"

I bite my lower lip to avoid saying the obvious: So did Kurt and I. Until Kurt cheated on me.

"Brutal honesty," Ms. Pillsbury interjects, clearly attempting to salvage the conversation, "is the cornerstone of any relationship. And I want you to feel like this is a safe space to air your differences."

The good intentions in Ms. Pillsbury's words fall flat as the words slap me in the face. In some ways it's even worse than knowing that Kurt's cheated on me; the idea that we can't even talk to each other anymore, that we have to lie to each other to survive. Kurt and I have always agreed to be honest, right from the beginning. We've never done it any differently -- until now.

Can I be really honest? Because it comes from a place of caring?

I don't know where my own words come from but suddenly I'm desperate and angry and they're frothing to the surface, Kurt's attention slowly pivoting to focus on me as I speak.

"Okay, well, um, first: Kurt has been texting this guy--" I see the way he jerks his head to the side, his eyes rolling skyward in response as I try to divide my attention equally between them. Kurt, because he needs to hear this, he needs to know this if there's any chance at saving what once was; and Ms. Pillsbury because she's non-threatening, receptive, and I need an open mind to hear me out because Kurt's prickliness is almost too much to bear otherwise. The exasperated little sigh he gives knives me; I want to tell him that he's the one that brought us here, he's the one that wanted this to work so why is he suddenly defense?

Then I remember that I'm the one who came, and I don't say anything about it.

"--And I got really upset," I admit, because now that I'm speaking it feels good to tell them, it feels vindictive, somehow, for Kurt to know that this isn't purely about him. It's about us, and the fact that he's hurting both of us with this. I can't help the words that slip out next -- brutal honesty is the cornerstone to any relationship -- when I say, "A-Although a while back I was s-sort of doing the same thing."

It wasn't the same. It was never the same because I never wanted Sebastian, I never looked forward to his texts or his calls or his Skype messages, never lingered by my phone hoping that he would say something just so I could respond. We never exchanged more than two dozen texts in the entirety of our correspondence and all our phone conversations put together would take less than an hour. I know that this doesn't matter to Kurt, though, because he only ever heard about those moments when Sebastian managed to wring important information from me -- a secret in exchange for silence. Sometimes he would keep texting regardless, but usually he was true to his word and, rather than involving other people, I saw no harm in it.

"With the guy who almost blinded him," Kurt bursts in, his outrage clear. I can't speak because we've had this conversation before -- almost a dozen times, in fact -- and it always ends the same way. Kurt, disbelieving that I was ever anything but a willing participant, and myself standing on the other side knowing better. It hurts to listen and not correct him but I don't say anything, letting him rant. "Blaine, I sang you a song to express my regrets."

Anger flares hot in my chest as I realize that this was all about petty gratitude -- about Kurt seeing me swoon back into his arms after he sang me a song about how much he loves me even if he can't admit to cheating on me. I want to take the thought back as soon as it appears but it's there, embedded in my mind and I can't shake it. The anger flushes out frustration and sadness, the backs of my eyes burning even as my voice gains momentum.

"Okay, if we're here to be . . . brutally honest, there are a few things I would like to change." I notice Ms. Pillsbury smiling at us and surreptitiously sliding a pamphlet underneath her leather desk cover; part of me wants to pause and ask what it is, another part too focused on Kurt, his expression holding sudden hostility, to care. He's daring me to say something, I realize, to point out exactly what he's done wrong, and I can't help myself.

"I am actively listening," Kurt says, his voice almost dripping with condescension. I want to stand up and walk away from him, to storm out and leave him to sort out his problems with Ms. Pillsbury, whose sudden bias -- a conspiratorial wink that I know is not meant for my eyes -- seems to be suiting his need for validation perfectly. Instead, I vent, my words steam-rolling over anything Kurt or Ms. Pillsbury might have said in protest.

"Well, for starters, Kurt has a tendency to snap his fingers at wait-staff. The cheesecake's on it's way, Kurt," and I can't stop myself from snapping my own fingers in the same ridiculous, impatient way he does, images of exasperated mortification coming to mind as I recall other times that he snapped his fingers at me (Come on, Blaine, we're going to be late. Hurry up, Blaine, we only have ten minutes! Faster, Blaine!) as I speak, "you don't have to snap your fingers, it's not gonna make it come any faster."

The bitterness in my voice is clear; the dryness in Kurt's voice is almost painful to listen to as he says, "Okay, I hear you, and that's something I'm willing to work on."

The way he says it -- laying the blame entirely on me as though it's somehow my fault for being frustrated with him even when he snaps his fingers even when we're supposed to be being intimate with each other -- spurs me into action.

"Oh, also, please stop slipping bronzer into my moisturizer." It's a habit of Kurt's to continuously try and improve the aesthetics of the world around him; normally I don't mind his choices. But curiosity had quickly morphed into hurt as I realized what Kurt's intentions were when he had added in the bronzer without telling me, trying to change something about me that was apparently so abhorrent to him that he couldn't even let me know beforehand. The worst part was that I might have even tried it if he had simply asked me first.

"You look good with a little color," he says, his voice innocent.

"I only use lotion on my hands; it looks weird if a person just has tan hands!"

I realize how upset I'm becoming over tan hands and I can't help but look to Ms. Pillsbury for support, for something other than the almost disgusted looks Kurt's giving me.

"Okay, Kurt, wouldn't you love Blaine just as much if he didn't have tan hands?" she intervenes smoothly. Of course, I reflect bitterly, she has nothing to lose here. At worst, her reputation will be marred a little more but here -- well, it's not exactly a shining one to begin with.

Kurt lifts his hands to speak, to interject the exact reasons why he's right and I'm wrong, but I don't let him. I can't let him because if I don't say this now I'm afraid I'll never have the courage to do it.

And I can't live the rest of my life knowing that I didn't even try to tell him.

"And while we're being perfectly honest," I say, because it's like a shield, a last barrier to hide behind when I'm ripping down the shields I've so carefully constructed around myself, the word honest ringing true somehow; Kurt's gaze finally lands and stays on me, his expression softening slightly with genuine curiosity, "I don't like that with every conversation we end up always talking about NYADA."

There it is. A flicker, a hint of recognition beyond mere exasperation. For the first time since I entered this office I'm actually hopeful -- not in the vague, foggy sense of things lost that can be found again but the real, tangible sense of redemption -- and I can't pause to let him say anything as my voice begins to waver.

"What song you're gonna sing, what -- what outfit you're gonna wear to your call back, how -- amazing New York is."

As if I need to be reminded of everything I can't have or share with him. As if I need to be reminded every day, with every conversation, that this isn't something we can go through together, that for the first time I have to let him go to a place where I can't follow.

An almost hysterical laugh attempts to bubble out of me as I realize the truth behind his song -- I don't want to have to go where you don't follow -- fumbling for words as I waver on the brink of it all.

"And it's like -- New York is the only thing we talk about now, Kurt, and it's like--"

I try but every desperate thought clinging to the possibility that maybe Kurt won't actually leave if I didn't say it aloud flees. My voice breaks and I can see the immediate change in Kurt's demeanor even as every emotion I've been trying to pin back to the edge of my consciousness floods forward, threatening to overwhelm me. Inexplicably, I'm not even afraid of the real possibility of tears, of shaming myself in front of him -- because now it's only him, Ms. Pillsbury lost with the rest of reality -- as I try and comprehend the fact that this is real.

This is actually happening.

"It's like you can't even wait to get out of here."

And he can't. I know he can't because I've seen the way he rants happily about it all, how excited he is to go out and explore a big city, to escape the confines of small town Ohio and instead find himself in the creative hub of the east coast. How he's already been packing his things even though he still has four months before he has to leave and hasn't even picked a college yet. How he's looking through apartments and dorms, food plans and schedules, weather forecasts and good places to eat.

How he's already met someone like Chandler and become instantly infatuated with the freshness, the newness of it all, and how quickly everything that we had -- all the meaningful hours spent between us -- are truly meaningless in the end.

Because he's already gone, and there's nothing I can do about it.

"How's that supposed to make me feel?"

His gaze flickers guiltily to the floor again but I'm already drained, somewhat relieved and mostly exhausted by the confession.

"In a few months," I try to control my voice, to make it strong and sure again, but the fight is already gone, the instinct to resist and reject his barbed comforts disappearing, "you're gonna be gone."

I look right at him even as he looks away, willing him to understand exactly how real this is. That he can't live this . . . this fantasy life with me anymore. That our supposed 'honeymoon' is over and it's time for him to move on and grow up and find more suitable boyfriends in the future, ones that can do everything he needs and still remain fresh and vibrant and spontaneous a year into their relationship, two years, five years.

I'm sorry if I'm trying to be spontaneous and fun!

"With this brand new life, and these brand new friends--"

The idea of not being involved in Kurt's life two, three, five years from now is unimaginable, unbearable. The tears crack my voice as I realize that it's true -- that there is no halting the horrible progress awaiting Kurt -- and I don't even attempt to hide them as I continue.

"Brand new everything, and I am gonna be right here." The suffocating feeling forces air from my lungs in a weak, breathless laugh. Asphyxiation can't feel more painful and unendurable than this. "By myself." I will him to see exactly how much that hurts, the idea that not only do I have to confront this impossibility with him gone but alone.

I don't have parents like his that would gladly listen to me talk about my problems and offer suggestions. They'll handle bigger problems, of course, but emotional ones? Ones that involve my boyfriend?

It's not because they're homophobic that I can't speak to them but because they're so detached. I vaguely wonder if they even remember what it's like to have genuine compassion for another human being outside their tiny spheres of life.

The Warblers are slowly beginning to re-earn my trust as well but it's a long, slow, tedious process. We won't be the same as we were before, sharing secrets and commiserating, but we can be amicable and that is all I can hope for. Still, it's not enough to curb the tide of pain that flushes through my system at the thought of being here, crippled and cut off without Kurt, without Rachel or Finn or any of them, because they're all graduating.

Tina and Artie aren't, a small voice reminds me.

I don't even bother give it a second thought. "You're right," I say, because it's true, but he doesn't look triumphant or even remotely happy at the admission, "I have been . . . distant. And I'm sorry but I'm just . . . I'm trying to practice what my life is gonna be like without you."

We're looking at each other and suddenly it's like all the frustration and anger is gone, a fog lifted that unveils Kurt underneath, beautiful, stunning, and so, so heartbroken. I don't know why it hurts so much to see him like this -- watching me break down, his entire expression bleeding regret and sadness -- but it does. It hurts more than anything else, more than the past week of silence, the fighting, the hate, the texts.

It hurts because it's Kurt, and it breaks me to think that I've upset him like this.

"You are the love of my life, Kurt," I say, because as much as I wanted apologies and acknowledgment and regret, this is what I want more. For him to know that, in spite of everything, he's still always been the one. The one person that I care about more than anyone else, regardless of what he does or how many times he does some irritating quirk. He's the person that gets me, that understands me, that comforts me and loves me.

He's Kurt. He's my everything.

"And I'm pissed off . . . that I have to learn the next year what being alone's going to be like."

"But you're not gonna be alone."

His voice is soft and sweet and suddenly he's Kurt again, the Kurt that I fell in love with, the Kurt that's so compassionate that it makes my heart ache, the Kurt that's real to me. Not the one that was mad at me, that bristled at my comments about his faults; this is Kurt at his core. This is Kurt real and unadorned.

"I'm going to Skype you every day," he promises, and I sniff slightly to keep tears at bay. I don't want to cry now, not when he's looking at me and I want to see his face still, need to see it, need to know that this is happening and isn't some fabulous daydream conjured to soothe my lonely heart. "And -- and you're going to come visit me in New York every weekend as far as I'm concerned." He gives a little laugh and I look down, my face crumpling slightly at the picture of us, there, in New York together, happy and free and celebrating our reunion.

"But I promise you aren't gonna lose me." The way he says it -- like he's on the verge of a breakdown -- allows me to compose myself. Somehow, I'm able to look at him, teary-eyed but calm, a new found sense of peace resonating through me.

This isn't the end.

This isn't over.

It's not gonna end here.

"I love you so much," is all I can say.

"I love you, too."

We hover, uncertain for a heartbeat before he's leaning forward and suddenly his arms are around me and I'm clutching at his back, my face pressed against the side of his. I can feel the way his arm anchors itself around my shoulders, holding me close without suffocating me, protecting me without caging me in, and I've never felt safer. The way his heart pounds reassuringly underneath my arm, our torsos half-pressed against each other as I curl my fingers into the back of his shirt soothes me more than any words possibly could. My eyes are closed, my other senses acutely aware of Kurt, Kurt everywhere, protecting me, comforting me, loving me.

I love you so much.

I know by the way that his chin rests on my shoulder, his cheek resting close to mine, that he feels the same.

I love you, too, he mouths, kissing the place under my ear reassuringly.

I don't even notice Ms. Pillsbury slipping quietly out of the room, only aware of Kurt, the way his fingers have started roaming my back slowly, reaffirming themselves with familiar territory. I want to do the same to him -- to re-map the places that I've already long-since learned -- but I can't bring myself to let go of him, to speak or move aside. For now, this is all I need, all I want.

Finally, I can breathe again.

With every quiet, hitching breath: I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to go. I love you.

And with every gentle squeeze: It's okay. I know. I love you, too.


	4. Chapter 4

I'd rather be alone then unhappy.

My fist connects with the red canvas with a muted thud, sweat dripping off my forehead. It's late to be practicing - almost six in the afternoon - but I can't bring myself to stop. Not until the look of devastation on Kurt's face vanishes from my mind. I walked into the choir room wanting him to finally see what he had done, to understand that something was wrong. I left knowing that I'd gone too far. A private conversation with him hadn't been enough for him to recognize the severity of the situation, but a condemnation in front of his friends - hell, his family - had been more than enough. Too much.

You messed up.

I let out a grunt of frustration as I punch the bag again. It doesn't even rattle on its hinges, ready to take any blow that I can throw at it. My hands ache with each consecutive impact but I can't stop.

All I can see is Kurt's face, morphing from disgusted and exasperated to horrified and disbelieving. Not the same as last night. That was different. Then his disbelief was genuine, his horror stemming from it. He didn't believe then that I was capable of being upset over something as innocuous as a few texts. Now he knew, and he saw what I had seen the moment that I read Chandler's text.

We're through.

With a snarl, I rip off my gloves, my aching hands momentarily soaking in the cool locker room air before connecting with the punching bag. Pain explodes in them, but it feels good because it's a pain that I can see and feel and fix. For a moment, it even whites out the agony of the intangible knife lodged in my chest, wrenched into place by four simple words.

You like this guy.

I pant and shiver and fall back onto the bench in exhaustion, unable to force my muscles to cooperate. It's been too long and too hard to quit and keep going; the second my momentum falters, I crumple. I halfheartedly peel the red-stained cloth off my hands, hunched over until I'm almost bent double, trying to catch my breath. My vision is spotty and my hands are shaking but I chuckle mirthlessly in relief as the image fades, Kurt's image disappearing from my mind's eye at last. All I can see is the gray tile below and the wooden bench beneath me, a line of red lockers standing at attention down the hall. The distant hoots of football players finishing up one of their practices draws me partially from my reverie even as fatigue threatens to drag me to the floor.

Sluggishly, I toss the bloody cloths into my open duffel bag, kicking my boxer gloves in after them. My mind feels heavy and blank as I stand, my arms hanging limply at my side, hours of cumulative sweat clinging to my back. I saunter over to the stalls and peel off my shirt with the same mechanical precision, tossing it onto the edge and shucking off my pants and boxers in one quick movement. The hot water burns against the open scrapes on my knuckles but relieves some of the aching pressure against my back and shoulders, steam pouring out around me. I crank up the nozzle until it's almost scalding, standing until the spray and letting it wash away my efforts from the past four hours.

Sighing, I jolt in surprise when a sharp, dry voice says, "I don't care what Hummel did, you and him need to get your crap together so that we can win nationals."

Turning to face the intruder, I blink in surprise. "Santana?" I belatedly turn off the shower head, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist. She rolls her eyes at the gesture.

"Trust me, hobbit, I've seen plenty of man parts."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here because you two need to stop fighting. And since both of you are acting like prissy puppies, it's time for a Snix intervention."

I bristle at the comparison, stepping out of the stall and grabbing my stuff with one hand, keeping another on the towel as a precautionary gesture. "I appreciate your concern, but Kurt and I can handle it," I say, walking towards my bag.

"That's exactly what it looked like you were doing earlier," she agrees in the same biting, sarcastic tone. "I always sing a song about cheating to my exes to win them back over. Which, by the way, I thought it was very sweet of you to dedicate a song to the entire Glee club."

"That was a mistake," I admit hollowly, tossing the dirty clothes in the bag and pulling out a fresh set from my locker. I tug on a shirt, hastily pulling on a fresh pair of boxers and sweat pants when she rolls her eyes and turns around obligingly. "Why do you care?" I ask as I toss the towel in a hamper.

She turns around and stares at me blankly. "I don't."

I pause in the process of zipping my bag, wrong-footed. "So you're here to - "

"I'm here to tell you that if you do care, you better make your move soon."

"I already did," I point out quietly.

Santana shakes her head, stepping forward until she's barely three feet away. "If that's the last move that you're going to make, then you've already broken up with him."

I flinch.

"It's your choice whether you and Hummel get back together," she says simply. "It's still your move."

I open my mouth to say something, trying to find words. "Do you really think he'll listen?" I ask quietly.

"I think," she says, stepping forward and taking my left hand, ignoring my grunt of protest as she wraps it in a fresh cloth, "it's your turn to listen."

I stare at her hands as she wraps mine quickly, stepping back when she's done.

"What if he doesn't want to talk any more?" I ask.

"Then he's done with you. Simple as that."

Shaking my head, I pick up my duffel bag, slinging it over one shoulder and wincing at the strain. "So, I have to wait?"

"You have to be ready," she corrects, her voice oddly soft. Then, rolling her eyes and making a dismissive gesture, almost as though to erase the momentary breach in her sharp demeanor: "Britt and I have our rough patches, too, but we always get through them. Just because you and Hummel have finally realized that you're not perfect, doesn't mean this is the end of your great, gay, fairy-tale romance."

I wrinkle my nose at the analogy.

"Give him time," she says, turning away from me and walking towards the door, "if he responds, then you two can be sickeningly in love again, and if he doesn't, then you can stop trying to get back what you'll never have."

I listen to the empty thud as the door shuts behind her, absently wondering why she knew to come down here. Why she wanted to find me here.

Looking down at my hands, I shake my head and follow her. She's already long out of sight by the time I pry open the door.

You have to be ready.

I walk out to my car, tossing the bag in the back before hurrying around to the front, a light misting of rain soaking into my clothes in the process. Slowly, warily, I dig into my satchel and pull out my phone, unlocking it.

The empty inbox hits me like a blow and I toss it back onto the passenger's seat, cramming the keys in the ignition and driving off.

I pull up near the Lima Bean and see Sebastian sitting alone at a table near the window. Without a word, I keep driving.

It isn't until I reach my house that I realize I'm still shaking. I can't help it - the sudden warring desires to call Kurt and apologize and text him and tell him that we're done make my head ache before I'm through the door. The house is empty this time - Cooper must be out visiting friends again, my parents out for a formal dinner together - and I sit down heavily on the couch in the living room with my phone clasped in my bandaged hands.

At last, quietly, I type two words and hit send.

Three minutes later: Hi, Blaine.

I swallow, suddenly at a loss for words, unsure what to do. My fingers hesitate over the keys. The phone vibrates again before I can respond.

Do you want to talk?

I hit call without another word.

"Hi."

"Hi. I - I'm sorry. For singing that song to you."

". . ."

"You don't have to . . . accept it or anything. The apology, I mean. I understand."

". . ."

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"I just . . . don't know what to say."

"Me, either."

A long pause. "I miss you. Us. I miss us."

I swallow. "I miss you, too."

"I didn't cheat on you."

I pause, trying to formulate a response. "I don't think . . . you did it willingly," I hedge.

He sighs. "But you still think I cheated."

I say nothing.

"Chandler . . . he makes me feel good. Happy. I haven't had a friend like him since I met you."

"I feel like I'm not your friend any more," I admit softly.

"What?"

"I . . . we don't talk any more, Kurt."

"Of course we do."

I chuckle bitterly. "We talk about . . . New York, and how amazing it's going to be for you. We talk about how much fun it's going to be once you've left . . . all of this behind. We talk about your future, Kurt. But we don't . . . we never talk about what it's going to be like for us when you're gone."

"We talk about how we're going to Skype all the time," he points out quietly. "Call each other. Visit each other."

"Kurt, that's. . . ." I swallow. "You're going to be living a whole new life there. I'm not going to be a big part of it, and I don't . . . I don't want to hold you back."

"Of course you're a big part of it, Blaine. You're . . . you mean so much to me, Blaine. You could never hold me back."

I look aside, shaking my head even though I know he can't see it.

"You're not going to lose me, Blaine."

Come to Glee club practice on Thursday?

I blink, staring down at my phone.

My hands are still bandaged, but I unlock the screen with minimal effort as the message goes briefly dark and hurriedly tap out a response.

Okay.

Then, two minutes later: Okay.

I wait for another response, an invitation, a request, an acceptance speech that doesn't come.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back against the couch and say nothing.

He's not going to forgive you easily for that one.

You have to listen.

Unwrapping my hands slowly, I look down and examine my knuckles. They look almost normal, red around the edges but otherwise fine. Still sore, but nothing that I can't handle.

Getting up, I trudge upstairs and into my room, shutting the door quietly behind me. I walk over to my dresser and pluck the moisturizing cream off the top, dabbing some onto my palms before rubbing it into my hands. I hiss softly at the burn as it covers the scrapes, relaxing when they're concealed. Frowning at the slight discoloration between my wrists and hands, I shake my head and toss the bottle aside, vexed.

You look good with a little color.

I only use moisturizer on my hands, Kurt. It looks weird if a person has tan hands.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, listening to the rain patter the roof and sidewalks, I hold my phone, waiting, waiting endlessly for some other indication that this will work out.

That we will be okay.

It isn't until the sun reappears that I realize I have no choice.

I have to be ready.

But I have to let him choose now.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


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